Godsend
by slire
Summary: "What d'ya want," she rasps, coughing a bit, "for letting me watch over mommy?" Dark Ages drabble.


**Disclaimer:** _Rise of the Guardians_ is the property of DreamWorks based on the book series by William Joyce.

**A/N: **Tried to make a scenario where crows (birds symbolizing bad omens) were Pitch's messengers.

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**Godsend**

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A hacking cough rips through her little lungs. The illness has toyed with her for days.

Melted snow drips through cracks in the roof that smells like rotten wood. Black curtains, drawn across the window ("To keep the devils away," the mother says), dance in the wind. It leaves the bedroom shrouded in darkness, all except from a dying candlelight. The bed seems too big and the girl too small.

Her head is surrounded by coarse, flaxen curls, like the angels in the paintings. The mother wipes blood off the girl's mouth. It leaves a strain of scarlet upon her cracked lips. The mother then dips a towel in bowl of water, twists it, and lays it on the girl's forehead. Within moments, it is inflamed by her fever.

The priest said she would survive a week at most. They don't have money for medicine.

"I'll get you some soup," the mother says, dark circles under her eyes. She hasn't slept in a long time.

"M'not hungry," the girl rasps. It feels like knives scrape the inside of her throat. "Please don't go, mommy."

"But you haven't eaten in days. I'll be right back, I promise."

The crack the mother leaves with the door is not wide enough chase the shadows away. They seem more alive now. The dancing black curtains, too. Silhouetted monsters—which only children can see—crawl across the creaking floorboards. Two ashen arms stretches out from the shadows. A crow diving from the window lands on one of them as if it was a snowy branch. Thin, bony fingers stroke its ebony feathers.

"Are you an angel?" asks the little girl.

The ashen hands cradle the bird. When they open, it lies dead.

"Are you a demon, then?"

The shadow answers, "Something like that." Its voice is like black, wet silk, clinging to one's mind like ivy. It makes her shiver. Yellow eyes shine alluringly in the dark. "Are you scared?"

She thinks as hard as her tired, young mind will allow her to. "...No."

The shadow steps forth and reveals itself as a man with teeth that could cut through bone. He casts no shadow. Smoke follows his every step, and so does the nightmarish creatures. "Then tell me, what _are_ you scared of?"

"Dyin', 'cos then I'd leave mommy all alone."

In such dark (and _lovely_) times, a lack of screams are rare. Having compassion at the age of six is rarer. Too bad that her thread of destiny is so short. Plenty of fools he would've liked to see go before her. Oh well.

Her voice is so, so quiet. "Can you save me?"

The Boogeyman's laugh is like a wind on a stormy night. "Even I cannot fight death, little one."

"Oh." It awakens acceptance. Young or old; most know when they are going to die. "What d'ya want," she rasps, coughing a bit, "for letting me watch over mommy?"

He pauses. The nightmare creatures move restlessly by his feet. They want to sink their teeth of paranoia into her, want to rip out her doubts, want to drink in her fear. "...If you give me your last breath," the Boogeyman finally decides, still stroking the dead crow's feathers, "then I will allow you to watch over her."

It is her time to pause. If her mother had been in the same position, would she...?

(And with that comes the bone-deep certainty that she _would_. She would gladly sacrifice herself and her believes in exchange for her daughter. It doesn't matter that she doesn't know who the father is. It doesn't matter that her family disowned her because of it. She loves her daughter as much as a mother should.)

The girl nods.

The Boogeyman smiles. It is a terrifying smile—like everything else about him—but it is not evil. It is merciful. He bends forward. From the shadows a thousand creatures emerge, disguised as ashes and earth and dirt.

She inhales the nightmare sand. It glitters beautifully. Like dark gold.

He lies his hand on her forehead. His skin is cold against hers. She gives a little sigh. The candlelight dies.

(A bowl shatters. Brown soup splatters over the floor. The mother grabs her daughter's lifeless hand. Tears fall onto the ragged sheets.)

Then, in the distance—

He hears the flapping of wings.


End file.
